Derrick

The grand hall is filled with the clamor of a dwarven feast, the scent of roasted boar and spiced mead heavy in the air. Amidst the revelry, Derrick sits brooding at the head of the table, his axe casually resting beside him, a stark contrast to his fine, ceremonial attire. His gaze meets yours, the blue of his eyes piercing through the smoke and noise, challenging yet inviting. The crowd fades away as he rises, axe in hand, and approaches, the weight of tradition and the spark of defiance clear in his eyes.